


Take a breath that’s true

by gloss



Series: Like wind refuse to die [2]
Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Poe Has Two Moms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-22 06:07:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16592273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: When Poe is sixteen, his moms give him a starship of his own.





	Take a breath that’s true

**Author's Note:**

> Builds on “The life that cuts the cold”; started in response to an AU prompt on r/fanfiction.
> 
> Title from Mazzy Star.

When Poe turns sixteen, his mothers give him the only thing he's ever wanted: a starship of his own. It's small, and obsolete if not literally ancient, and terribly banged up in a multitude of ways. At minimum, he'll need to refurb its avionics and life-support systems before they can even think about getting it off the ground.

With Leia’s arm around her waist, Shara tells him all of this. She doesn’t want him to get carried away. Leia has her head tipped against Shara's shoulder. The breeze ruffles through her silvering hair; she's due for a cut.

"It's going to be a lot of work," Shara warns.

"Though worth it," Leia adds.

They’re in the bargain annex to a ship- and junkyard two stars over from the system they’ve been calling home most recently.

“So much work,” Shara says again.

Poe is on his back, all the way under the hull. Only the worn soles of his boots are visible. He may not have heard them. It is more likely, however, that their cautions failed to make an impression in the midst of his excitement. Both feet twitch back and forth, as if he’s dancing in his skin, as he calls, "This is the best ship I've ever seen!"

The women exchange a smile at that; he has never been very good at tamping down enthusiasm, however grave the situation. _Contagious with joy_ , Leia observed years ago about him. That not only remains true, but it has, if anything, grown. When he shoots back into sight, rickety creeper clattering under his slight weight, they fail to compose themselves in time.

"Laughing at me," he says, trying to sound sulky. Oil has smeared down one cheek and matted some of his riotous curls. 

"Never," Leia swears as Shara pulls him to his feet. "Would we do that?"

"Only my whole life," he says, grinning now, unable to maintain even the pretense of a bad mood for very long at all. 

Shara, hands on her hips, considers the pile of junk before them. "You really like it?" 

Poe hugs her from behind, rocking her off-balance and laughing so loudly right in her ear she winces. "Are you kidding? She's beautiful! She's gorgeous and powerful and one of a kind!"

She can only shake her head in response. It should be a better ship; he should be heading off to the Academy soon. He should learn how to _really_ fly, not have to make do with her instruction. He should be safe. She has entire mental catalogs devoted to what he deserves, where she has fallen short, what might have, should have, been.

"Hey. Hey, Mama," Poe says, voice dropping with that unerring instinct he's always had for his mothers' moods, their unspoken regrets and swallowed griefs. He hugs her tighter and digs his chin into her shoulder. "You okay? I love the ship."

He wasn't even three when Skywalker fell and they lost the war. He can't remember any life but this one. It has only ever been just the three of them roving the Outer Rim, taking stupidly dangerous jobs, ducking Inquisitors and other imperials. Out in public like this, he wears a decoy eyepatch and uses a crutch to ward off any impressment attempts. Even this far from the core, they’ve heard too much about the Empire’s interest in the young.

As a family, they have only ever had one rule: don’t engage. Stay alive and don’t engage. It’s hardest for Leia, Shara knows, whose every instinct runs toward communicating and making connections and doing everything she can to lessen others’ pain. Shara finds it easier: so long as Poe is with them and they have a working starship, she can abide by the rule just fine. She thinks Poe must struggle, too; he’s as fervent in his sense of right and wrong as Leia, and his ready affection for other sentients has been, at times, impossible to quell. He doesn’t let on, however, if he does struggle. He’ll grin and peel himself away from whatever game or flirtation he effortlessly joined and return to his mothers without complaint.

"Happy birthday," she says. She wraps her arms over his and squeezes back. Leia embraces them from the side, pressing her face against Poe’s worn jacket sleeve. Together, they sway and breathe.

They have done this group hold for as long as she can remember. Leia refers to it as _finding the Force_ ; Shara has always thought of it as _settling_ , the same way a pilot seeks the horizon. As a kid, Poe called it _quiet hugs!_. He used to be the squirming body between theirs; then, when he matched Leia in height, the two of them hugged Shara from either side. Now, any arrangement suits.

*

"You sure this is doable?" Poe asks later. They’re sitting on the floor of the new ship’s hold, sharing around dishes of noodles and a flask of the local ale. He’s had a bit too much to drink—“it’s a special occasion!”—and his cheeks are flushed dark, his eyes glittering.

Shara lets Leia field that one. "Questioning our giftgiving ability, kiddo? Who raised you? We can afford this."

They can afford it only because they've been saving for him for as long as they could. They've raided the fund several times, unfortunately, to bail one or both of them out and to purchase new documents. 

He rolls his eyes. "Money-wise, all right. Sure. But what about all the licenses? Customs and harbor regs?"

“Worry about that when the time comes,” Shara says. “This boat’s not going anywhere for a while.”

He sucks up a mouthful of noodles, looking briefly like a Yrocetan with dangling flexi-baleen. Still chewing, he bobs his head. “But it’s going to be tough, right, because—“

“Poe,” Shara says, surprising herself with the firmness in her tone. He stares at her, gone still. “One thing at a time.”

“She’s right,” Leia puts in as she leans over and steals the third dish of noodles he’s been hoarding. “When have you ever thought more than two steps ahead, anyway?”

Mockingly, feigning rage, he raises his fist at her and shakes it. “I’m sixteen now. Got the maturity kicking in.” 

“Is that what it is? I thought you just needed another visit to the fresher.”

He starts to reply, then sniffs his armpit and grimaces. “Fine, that, too.”

Leia has always been able to tease him and get him to relax out of his occasional, but acute, bouts of worry. Shara wishes she had that talent; this is one more thing she should have been able to give him.

Shara can't help but see his father in Poe, especially in his outsized nose and thick, antic eyebrows. But she sees Leia, too, in how he looks at things, really takes them in, with warmth and attention, how he listens, how he smiles so quickly as to startle. Somehow, too, he shares Leia's slight build and elegant fingers, nothing like his father's breadth or Shara's own blunt, utilitarian touch.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Leia will say when, rarely, she shares these thoughts. “He’s all you. A little Kes through the schnozz, sure, but otherwise all you.”

Shara will hum a little in response, uncertain, even when Leia kisses her gently and adds, “Eyes on the stars? Looking up and moving fast? Braver than anyone? That’s you.”

She wishes she could see that.

*

Once he gets the ship airborne, Poe embarks on a career hauling freight for two of the scavengers he has befriended during the long months it took to rebuild the ship. “So low-risk, it might as well be on the ground!” he argues when he presents the plan to them. “Imperials barely notice anything smaller than a corvette, let alone a single-man crew hauling junk.”

Though he’s right, Shara still has her doubts. She wants to disable his hyperdrive, just for the time being, but Leia and Poe outvote her. He would outwit her, anyway; they both know that. 

She can’t help but want to keep him close.

“He’ll be back,” Leia assures her when he departs on his first run. It’s a far simpler route than any he’s flown since he was about twelve and Shara let him take the controls. There’s nothing to worry about, and yet she can barely watch the ship rumble out of the atmosphere. 

“I know,” she tells Leia. They don’t have much time to spend waving him off; there are rumors of stormtroopers in the next system over and two large bounties all but waiting to get scooped up and delivered. They will meet up with Poe at a mining outpost called Ossen-56 in three standard days.

That time, however, stretches agonizingly to three months, then six. 

Shara and Leia chase down one bounty, then another, always circling back to Ossen, but no word comes from Poe. There’s no sign of his ship on any of the various feeds and logs they check; Shara purchases covert access to the empire’s own port logs and finds nothing resembling him. Every alias they have ever used for him comes up empty. She tries another info broker, dips into credit they don’t have, and still, always, nothing.

Leia worries, too, but her anxiety is a grave and still thing. It slows her speech and tightens her eyes, while Shara becomes more and more restless and excitable. She’s sloppy in her distraction. She nearly lets a target get the slip on her, her own blaster jammed into her ribs and his fangs scraping her neck. Only her anger at being so stupid makes her fight hard enough to fell him and regain control.

Leia consults the Force, whatever that means, however that works. She would know, she claims, if “something” happened to Poe.

Shara knows she means if he dies.

But without him, without word, he might as well be dead.

He could be chained in a mine, or bobbing in a bacta tank to be harvested for organs for the rich, or simply floating unconscious in his terrible ship. She should have reviewed his repairs more carefully. She should have taught him better.

*

When he saunters into the small fonda at Ossen, they have been waiting half a standard day already. The excreted plastifoam seats have numbed their asses and they’ve already tasted every single dish on the automated menu. Their visits here have acquired the solemn air of ritual performed for its own sake.

Poe’s stubble is heavy on his gaunt cheeks. The first thing he says is, “Sorry I’m late. Been waiting long?”

Leia rises to her feet; his smile falters the longer she regards him silently. Finally, she slaps his cheek before hugging him hard. Shara watches through the hot blur of tears; she’s pulling at his hand, which is unexpectedly rough and calloused, tugging him down to sit beside her.

“Before you ask, the ship’s fine. Probably,” he tells them, leaning back to the console to punch in a double order for hot rice cereal. He takes a long swig from Shara’s drink and goes quiet for a moment, drumming his fingers on the container. “Missed you two.”

“Explain yourself,” Leia says and Shara nods.

The server droid deposits his order on the edge of the counter. After a pleading look from Poe, Shara gets the message and taps her credit chip against the droid’s crown to pay. She didn’t think she’d ever have to cover his (voracious) food expenses again: the simple fact of that renews the burn of her tears. Leia chafes her hand up and down Shara’s thigh, steadying her, helping her find the horizon.

“Ran into some trouble. Just a little bit,” he says. He sounds distracted as he looks around the empty restaurant as if he’s misplaced something. He slurps up a few mouthfuls of cereal hungrily before sitting back and clasping Shara’s hand with both of his. Hoarsely, not quite looking at her, he asks, “Please don’t cry? Mom?”

Shara nods, swallowing hard.

“And who’s this?” Leia asks.

Suddenly self-conscious, remembering they’re in public, Shara straightens her back and wipes her eyes. A small child, dark-skinned and skinny, shaven head round as a bulb, approaches their table, then hesitates.

Poe grins, easy and wide, like he always could, reaching to tug the kid closer. “Moms, this is Finn. Finn, Moms.”

The “little bit of trouble” Poe encountered involved, it develops, an Imperial troop transport jumping the harbor queue, then three cycles’ worth of time in the transport’s brig for his questioning that preferential treatment, as well as the loss of his cargo, and then, somehow, an escape from that same carrier that involved setting free sixty child soldiers with the help of —

“Finn,” Leia says, shaking the boy’s hand. He looks barely able to lift a blaster by himself, let alone collaborate on a mass troop rebellion. Then again, Poe himself looks more like an underground music groupie than young captain and, apparently, liberation leader. “Good to meet you.”

Shara half-rises from her seat, stepping past Poe, and Finn gazes up at her. His big dark eyes are bottomless and bright, just like Poe’s, like Leia’s. When she hugs him, he is stiff for half a second and then simply warm and clinging. Over his head, she asks Poe, “Whatever happened to don’t engage?”

He shrugs and rubs the back of his neck. “Sometimes you’ve got to.”

Leia clasps his shoulder and hauls him back to kiss the top of his head again.

Finn disengages from Shara and says, very gravely, “It was my idea, ma’am.”

“He’s the brains! Told him he could be my first mate,” Poe says and pushes the rest of his cereal toward Finn, who grabs it with the unabashed greed of the long hungry. “But that I had to check with the old ladies first.”

“But you’re not old,” Finn tells Leia and Shara.

“I like you,” Leia replies. “Poe exaggerates. Something you’ll need to get used to.”

Considering that, Finn nods. He looks around the table as if still uncertain they are all, in fact, real. Squeezing Poe’s hand hard enough to bruise, Shara can understand that doubt all too well. 

“All right,” Finn says. “I’ll keep that in mind.”


End file.
